


Admission

by eevilalice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bargaining, F/M, Guilt, Kidnapping, Lemon, Prisoner of War, Torture, War Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2011-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 04:22:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eevilalice/pseuds/eevilalice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's been captured by Death Eaters, while Ron and Hermione have taken a prisoner of their own: Draco Malfoy. What is Hermione willing to do to find Harry?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Though there's a bit of Ron/Hermione in this fic, it is a Draco/Hermione story.

“I’m going in alone.”

“What?! Why? You really think he’s gonna…Hermione, no way.”

“We’re running out of options, Ronald. Harry’s been gone for almost a week. Who knows what’s being done to him, if he’s even—” Hermione broke off, stopping herself before her voice could take on that wretched quavering quality, the one that signaled tears. She looked down at the leaf-strewn ground, swallowed. “We _need_ to find out where he is _now._ ”

Ron stared at her a moment, eyes bloodshot and vague with hopelessness. He shoved his hands in his pockets, shifted his gaze to a point just beyond Hermione’s right shoulder. She turned, looked at the tent burnished a reddish gold by the late afternoon sun.

“Okay. I’ll be right out here,” Ron murmured, and her heart broke a little at the ease with which she’d won the argument. That, really, there’d been no argument.

How much had changed in six days.

She turned back to him, took both his hands from his pockets and squeezed. He managed a small quirk of a smile and chuckled softly, squeezing back. “He’s more afraid of you anyway.”

Hermione returned the quick smile and watched as a gust of early autumn wind lifted and tangled Ron’s hair lit crimson by the sun. She wanted to say something, but the tightening of her throat and trembling of her lips warned against it. Instead, she released Ron’s hands and made her way to the tent.

Reaching the entrance flap, she paused to take a deep breath in through her nose, exhaling out through her mouth. _Harry,_ she thought. _For Harry._ She pushed the flap aside and entered.

Draco Malfoy sat with his arms behind him, tied to the tent’s center pole, knees raised and bent, head back, eyes closed. His trademark white-blond hair hung limply at his shoulders, greasy from going unwashed the three days they’d had him bound there.

Hermione waited and eyed his chest rising and falling evenly, though not slowly and deeply enough for sleep.

 _Faker._

Pulling her wand from her back pocket, she cast silencing and locking charms in a clear, audible voice. There’d be no entry or exit, and no sounds Ron could hear, until she ended the spells herself.

Malfoy opened his eyes and stared at the canvas above, sighing heavily as if Hermione were interrupting deep thoughts or some activity of utmost importance. Managing nonchalance even in his less than dignified position, he turned his head and regarded her with a sneer.

Hermione folded her arms across her chest, still grasping her wand, which she tapped steadily against her left shoulder. She took in Malfoy’s silent sneer, the dark circles under his eyes (the ones that matched her own and Ron’s), the pale complexion that she might once, perhaps, have called porcelain, but now was simply pasty, contrasting sharply with his torn, black, finely-ribbed turtleneck and tailored trousers.

He hadn’t said a word in three days.

Three days of questions, demands, threats of turning him over to the Order of the Phoenix, offers of sanctuary with the Order, and, finally, begging.

Silence. Not even a snide remark.

Occasionally, like now, there was a sneer, but, like a fake smile, it never reached his eyes. Nothing reached his eyes. It was as if he’d been hollowed out, like a dementor had blown him a kiss.

Hermione wondered if _she_ would seem the shell of herself if _(when)_ she saw her parents, or Ginny, or Neville, or any of her other friends again. Surely the changes would have happened too slowly and subtly for Ron or Harry to have noticed.

 _Harry._

Hermione’s heart clenched painfully in her chest, and she tightened the grasp on her wand, letting her arms drop to her sides.

Malfoy watched disinterestedly as she took a few steps forward, stopping about a foot away, just far enough so that she towered over him. Now standing directly in front of him, he was forced to turn his head and crane his neck to look up at her. The fake-sneer was gone.

Hermione raised her wand and aimed it right down at his pointy nose. Her gaze locked on his depthless grey eyes.

“One last chance, Malfoy. Where’s Harry?” The steadiness of her voice, the mask of coolness and determination into which she’d schooled her features impressed even her. Maybe it wasn’t a mask.

A slight twitch of his lip, a small huff of air. A tiny crease between the eyebrows that appeared and disappeared so fast she wasn’t sure she’d really seen it. At least it was something different.

Still, silence.

She exhaled, lowered her gaze, wand arm slackening as she gathered herself.

 _This has to end. We need him. This has to end._

A rustle. Glancing up, she saw that Malfoy had shifted a bit on the ground, disturbing the leaves there. _Bony arse is probably asleep,_ she thought, inexplicably irritated. He looked more insouciant than anything else, even with no expression on his face and nothing in his eyes.

Something inside her settled, fine grains of resolve solidifying and giving her weight, anchoring her feet and locking her elbow as she pronounced calmly, _“Congelo Cruor.”_

Malfoy’s eyes widened and he looked down at his body wildly. After a moment, he looked back up at her, confused.

“It works slowly. Give it a chance,” she said evenly.

A beat.

Malfoy began to shiver. He drew his legs together and closer to his body. His shoulders wrenched, as if he’d forgotten he was bound and was trying to hug himself. As his breath grew shallow and his jaw muscles clenched in what must have been an effort to keep his teeth from chattering, Hermione finally saw something spark in his quickening eyes.

Surprise. And, more usefully, a touch of fear.

Ironic, a blood-freezing curse the thing to thaw him.

Heart pounding, she waited one more moment and watched as his skin began to turn blue, his lips purpling, breaths shaky, yet slowing. Watched as fear overtook shock, panic contorting his sharp features, drawing his brows together in something that looked like a plea.

 _“Finite Incantatem.”_

Malfoy let out a long, unsteady breath but did not unclench his body. Shivers still wracked his frame, though they were smaller and less frequent. Purple still stained his lips. He crouched back against the tent pole, looking about five years younger than he was. She remembered him first year in the Forbidden Forest serving detention for ratting out her, Ron, and Harry. A frightened little boy.

Though the chilling effects of the spell had ended, his body would need help heating back up. She put the kettle on the fire for tea and grabbed a blanket from her cot. Returning her wand to her back pocket, she crouched in front of him, blanket bunched under her arm.

“You know, Malfoy, when I slapped you third year, I think I may have enjoyed it more than I should have.” She paused, gauging his reaction. Still shivering, he looked at her warily.

She continued, moving a touch closer and lowering her voice conspiratorially: “When I get really angry or feel powerless, I think about that slap and wish you were there just so I could smack that pathetic, cowardly, pointy face of yours again and feel better.” She mustered all the casual nastiness she could and put it in her voice, hoping it would cover the trace of shame she felt in admitting such a thing.

She tossed the blanket over him and leaned forward to tuck it around his sides as best she could. His breath ghosted over her cheek.

“Do you touch yourself when you think about it, Granger?” His voice low, amused.

Without thinking, Hermione reared back and slapped him, hard and clumsily, her last two fingers making contact with his mouth so that she felt the smooth scrape of teeth, her hand coming away wet with saliva.

He chuckled, then winced, and she saw she’d split his lip. She glanced down at her hand, still stinging from the blow; a streak of blood smeared her fingers. She clenched them into a fist and ground it against her thigh.

“Just trying to make you ‘feel better,’ Granger. Although, I must say, seems rather selfish and un-Gryffindor of you to spend all this time _pleasing yourself_ when Potter’s Merlin-knows-where—”

“Shut up!” Hermione shouted, scrambling to her feet and backing away from him. His eyes followed her, all trace of fear gone. Her handprint stood out red against the pallor of his skin.

He grinned meanly. “Shut up? I thought you wanted me to talk. Isn’t that what you and the Weasel have been trying to get me to do the last three days?” He snorted. “Face it, you’re not cut out for this. Too much the noble bloody Gryffindor. You use that spell on me, then practically trip over yourself making tea and wrapping me up with a nice warm blanket. _You’re_ the one who’s pathetic!” he bit out, and Hermione marveled at how he was able to put exponentially more nastiness into his voice than she could ever manage.

He shook his head dismissively, a lock of limp, blond hair falling in his face. “This is Slytherin territory: interrogation, mind games . . . torture.” At the pause, Malfoy broke eye contact, looked off to the left, his eyes once again going flat. “Water’s boiling,” he mumbled.

Hermione turned and fetched the kettle, grateful for the opportunity to busy herself with something else, if only for a few moments. That pause, the tightening of Malfoy’s voice and the deadening of his eyes—all led her to believe he’d either undergone his fair share of abuse, or been forced to witness or dole it out himself. Perhaps all three.

She knew he was right; she didn’t have the stomach for this. She’d already reached the limits of what she was willing to do, and it had gotten her nowhere. She had mean thoughts and petty feelings like everyone else, but they didn’t allow her to cross certain lines others might be able to in order to achieve what they wanted. Even if what she and Ron, and much of the Wizarding World, wanted—no, needed—was Harry.

She couldn’t help but feel like she was letting Harry down, not being able to get one piece of information from the Ferret, of all people, and without doing something she couldn’t live with.

Finishing with the tea, she approached Malfoy, carefully lowering herself to her knees and settling on her heels in front of him and blowing gently on the hot liquid. She did not meet his eyes, instead focusing on his lips as she raised the cup to them. Blood still shone wet at the corner of his mouth.

He carefully took a sip, and she held the cup at a distance where he could lean forward and drink more when he wanted. His skin was already beginning to pink up, at least as much as his would, and they sat there in silence until Malfoy finished the tea. It was the first food or drink besides water he’d accepted in three days.

“Tell you what, Granger,” he drawled, as if he were about to advise her, mock-charitably, on what she might do with her life given her restricted options as a Muggle-born. “I’ll give you Potter’s location—” Hermione’s eyes darted to his, suspicious, “—on one condition.” She scowled, mind refusing even to begin contemplating what Malfoy might ask of her. But, despite herself, her ribs seemed to shrink in her chest, heart suddenly beating hard and fast.

She nodded briskly, glowering. “Go on.”

His grey eyes glittered silver with satisfaction and, behind that, some other emotion she couldn’t name, at least not coming from him.

“You have to admit you’re inferior to me, and you have to make me believe you mean it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione blinked at Malfoy dumbly, mute with disbelief and sheer aggravation. He smirked as if she’d already said the words, told the lie he’d had the audacity to ask her to tell.

She set the empty cup down carefully on the sparse grass and dried leaf-covered ground next to her. Calves and feet going numb from sitting on her knees, she let herself fall to the side, on her rump, legs bent beside her and tingling with renewed circulation. She continued to stare at Malfoy without seeing him, instead focusing on the heavy, earthy scent of dead leaves and dying grass, so strong it was in her mouth. Beneath that, unwashed hair; the prat smelled liked anyone else. She heard the faint scratching of an insect moving about under the leaves as she thought how, secretly, she liked that slightly musty, scalp oil smell. Little fuses lit in her stomach.

“Well?” Malfoy prompted, voice rising at the end like he couldn’t believe she hadn’t yelled at, jinxed, or resumed torturing him and was sorely disappointed.

Hermione drew her wand and pointed it at his head. Again. He flinched, his expression—eyes narrowed then wide, mouth slackened—caught between cautious doubt that she’d truly hurt him again, and a kind of smug enjoyment that he might have gotten to her once more.

 _“Scourgify.”_

Malfoy’s hair lifted imperceptibly, regaining some of its usual shine and silky texture. His eyes rolled up, forehead wrinkling, as if he could see the oil disappear from his scalp and roots. Not as clean as a thorough shampoo with actual water, but better than nothing. He looked at her, quirking an eyebrow.

“You smelled,” she answered in reply to his silent question as she put her wand away.

Rolling his eyes, he huffed. _Oh no, a Malfoy never stinks._ She could fairly read the words as they crossed his mind.

“I’d have thought Weasley’s stench would overpower any minor body odor _I_ might exude, even from all the way outside this blasted tent.” He crinkled his nose as he said it, glancing at the entrance. “Or, maybe you’re so used to it, _any_ foreign scent’s odd. Too bad we won’t find out if even Potter will smell bad to you, seeing as how you’re completely uninterested in his rescue,” he finished snidely.

“Malfoy—” she pushed herself up onto her knees again, reached over and yanked the blanket away. “Stop… _fucking_ with me!” The obscenity sounded shrill and unnatural to her ears, but she couldn’t think what else might dull the stabs of electric energy jolting her stomach and spiraling out from there. Even her toes twitched with it.

“Do you really, truly believe I’m stupid enough to think you’ll tell me where Harry is for something so simple?”

Malfoy’s tongue snuck out to lick at the now-dried blood on his lips before they stretched into a baiting grin. Using the pole behind him as support, he shimmied his bound wrists up it and maneuvered onto his own knees, mirroring Hermione’s posture. The thing she’d seen earlier, that lively thing in his eyes before he’d made his little demand, lit him up again.

“Granger,” he said her name slowly, deliberately, as if she were a small child who’d dismayed him. “You underestimate both the pleasure it will give me to hear you say it, and my knowledge of how difficult it will be for you to make it convincing. Not to mention…” he paused, leisurely tossed his newly clean hair, watched as her face darkened, listened to the scrape of fingernails against denim as she balled her hands into fists, “Potter’s location is only half the battle. You’ll still have to contend with loads of highly skilled, _ruthless_ Death Eaters perfectly willing and eager to torture, if not the Dark Lord himself.” When she opened her mouth to explain or retort—apparently he didn’t care which—he continued, “ _And,_ of course, I can’t guarantee that Potter will still be alive if by some miniscule, pixie-sized chance you make it to him.”

“You don’t think I know all that?” Hermione screeched, inwardly wincing at the sound of her own voice. “The second part, anyway,” she added, making a conscious effort to speak calmly through the hysteria Malfoy seemed to incite whenever he opened his mouth. Dropping the blanket behind her, she reached to rake her hands through her tangled curls, only to remember she’d put them up in a low, loose knot.

“Look,” she sighed, “this is ridiculous. You’re an intelligent person, Malfoy,” she started, shifting forward on her knees a few inches, then resting back on her heels. Remarkably, she saw no smirk, no superior lifting of his chin, only a shade of curiosity in the subtle arching of his brows. “It’s just the two of us in here. I think that, deep down, not even you truly feel I’m naturally inferior as a witch. I’m just as skilled with magic as you are, and, not to rub salt in any wounds, I even get better marks.”

With this last observation, she steeled herself for a barrage of defensive derision, but, to Hermione’s confusion, Malfoy merely chuckled and shook his head in barely restrained delight. She seethed, wrapping her arms around herself and digging her fingers into her sides to keep from reflexively slapping him again.

“You’re only proving my point, _Mudblood,_ ” he swore, obliterating her entreaties with his use of that one word. “Stalling, evading. This might be harder for you than I thought,” he mused. “I really did pick the perfect price for you to pay.”

She gripped her sides harder and swallowed around the tightness in her throat. Her abdomen tensed as those currents of electricity returned, a conductor for raw fury.

Apparently finished with his self-congratulatory musing, he resumed, “And since you want to know what I _really_ think, I believe that, _deep down,_ ” he mocked, “you _know_ you’re inferior and _that’s_ why you’ve always been so eager to be such a know-it-all bookworm. Obviously, that’s where your skill in magic has come from as well. It’s hardly _natural_. All that studying and memorizing and those treatise-length essays, all that hand-raising and brownnosing—it’s just an effort to make up for your innate inferiority, to prove you belonged at Hogwarts. Maybe even to prove you were worthy of Potter and that blood-traitor, Weasley, as funny as that sounds to someone of status like me.”

As Hermione listened to Malfoy’s patently ridiculous rationalizations for why a Muggle-born like herself could be as capable as a pureblood such as himself, she felt the energy wreaking havoc in her belly disperse into a strange warmth that travelled her veins. It took a space of silence and her captive’s bewildered, slightly nervous expression to alert her to the fact that a serene smile had unexpectedly manifested this internal change externally.

“For your information, Malfoy,” she explained kindly, patiently, “I’ve always been an excellent student, since before Hogwarts.”

She waited, happy to see his eyes downcast, shoulders hunched, perturbed. Had she reached him? Made him see the error in his logic? That logic had nothing to do with these fatal prejudices he’d been brought up to believe?

He sighed heavily, eyes still focused on some dead leaf. But there was a laxness to his controlled defeat, like he couldn’t quite maintain it, and before the first words left his mouth, she knew she’d been a fool.

“So you must feel inferior even to other Muggles, then,” he managed before bursting into hysterical laughter, shoulders shaking, pale face reddening, possibly the most maliciously gleeful she’d ever seen him.

Hermione was either too tired to let herself feel anger, or beyond it; all she could do was bring her hands to her face, fingers pressed along her brows. She listened to Malfoy’s laughter a moment, its pitch increasing, volume decreasing in what she hoped was exhaustion, and smoothed her first and middle fingers along her eyebrows before reaching back and pulling her hair out of the knot. She shook her head briskly and smoothed her hands over her unfurling curls.

When, at long last, she heard nothing but Malfoy trying to regain his breath, she turned her attention to him. Still red-faced, he looked sated, sitting back on his heels, a small smile still twisting his lips.

Hermione made to stand, shifting first high up onto her knees. “You’re a horrible person, Malfoy,” she pronounced, looking down at his crown of platinum hair.

Abruptly, he rose up to his own knees, towering over her and straining forward as far as his bindings would allow, deadly serious. “Yes, a horrible, _superior_ person. Say it, Granger. Tell me.” He was inches away, his breath smelling of tea, his voice constricted as if, instead of there being nothing inside him, there was too much. His pupils dilated with it, fine twitches in the muscles of his jaw and forehead communicating a desperation that startled her.

 _He really needs to hear me say it,_ she thought, feeling stupid for not seeing it sooner. This wasn’t about her. It wasn’t some silly power play designed to throw her off, though perhaps that’s what he thought it was. What he told himself it was. This was about reassurance, restoration of equilibrium. All Malfoy had been brought up to believe—his innate superiority through blood and wealth and name—had likely been challenged in the worst ways beginning sixth year with the near-impossible tasks You-Know-Who had set him. Rationalizing hatred when questioned was one thing; hurting, killing, helping to usher in a war for that hatred was another. And God knew what terrors he’d seen, suffered, or had to inflict since.

She could give him this one thing, couldn’t she? She could. It didn’t have to be true; she didn’t have to believe it. _He_ did.

“Astonishing, the way you put your own comfort before Potter’s,” he drawled. “You’re always so quick to point to your accomplishments, but you can’t do this one thing for your best mate, the Savior of the Wizarding World,” he finished with a sneer.

 _Oh God, Harry._ How could she forget the reason Malfoy was kneeling here before her, Ron outside waiting, worrying…

She lifted her chin, met Malfoy’s eyes which glinted with realization before she even spoke.

“How do you want me to say it?”


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione felt a warm puff of air on her face as Malfoy let out a small sigh, as if he’d been holding his breath. It was…intimate, his face so close she could see darker strands of blue threading the grey of his eyes. She’d never been this close to him before, had never needed nor wanted to be, still didn’t want to be. She was glad when, smiling complacently, he sat back on his heels.

“I want you to say it whichever way will enable you to make it believable,” he explained charitably, unfolding and refolding his legs to sit Indian-style. This was the least acrimonious he’d ever been with her, she realized. Merely the promise of admitting inferiority was enough to placate him; actually saying the words felt like a formality, though she knew it would be foolish to point this out.

She joined him on the ground, leaves crinkling beneath her. She took a deep breath, stared a moment at her hands twisting in her lap, fixating on the dirt underneath her worn fingernails. Finally, she looked up, met his eyes gleaming with quiet anticipation.

“You’re better than me, Malfoy—”

“Draco,” he interrupted, voice firm but not mean. “You’re saying this to _me_. Not to my father. Not to anyone else.” Despite his relaxed posture, his eyes were intent, holding her gaze.

She swallowed, started over. “You’re better than me, Draco.” Saying his given name threw some switch inside her, and the diffuse energy that had dissipated earlier condensed in her stomach again, ripples of electricity that throbbed with her pulse. She looked away. “I’m…inferior. I’ve got dirty blood, I shouldn’t have been allowed into Hogwarts—”

“Stop,” he cut her off again. She looked at him, confused and exasperated. “You’re going too far for believability. Try again,” he urged, almost whispering. He was leaning forward now; the ropes behind him creaked.

“I’m…” she trailed off, horrified to hear her voice quaver. _No, no, no._ Why did she feel like she was about to cry? She broke eye contact with Malfoy so she wouldn’t see his reaction; whatever it was, she couldn’t deal with it.

She looked around the tent, its drab canvas walls a shelter and a prison both, littered with their assorted supplies. On either side of the entrance flap stood her and Ron’s two cots, the latter unmade. Next to Ron’s, a space where Harry’s should have been.

It was her fault.

She’d been alone with Harry, out wandering in the woods for a bit of exercise and arguing about their next move, when the Death Eaters had appeared. One had incapacitated her with a casual _Crucio_ before she’d even had a chance to react, and only Harry’s quick reflexes and selflessness had prevented her own capture—or death. Instead, with that one opportunity for defense wasted on Hermione, the Death Eaters had made off with Harry, and she was left writhing in pain on the forest floor, alone. The Brightest Witch of Her Age.

Now she thought she understood Malfoy’s persistent silence the past few days, the blank eyes and forced sneers. She could feel a pit of hollowness growing inside, eating at her, dulling the currents of electricity. How could emptiness be so solid, so heavy a thing?

Standing, she walked over to her cot, withdrew her wand from her pocket, and dropped it on the flimsy mattress. It no longer felt right in her hand, like it belonged to someone else.

She returned to Malfoy, eyes on the ground the whole way, the _crunch-crunch_ of leaves underfoot. She knelt, listened to her steady breaths and Draco’s slightly shallower, faster ones.

The air between them had changed, though Hermione didn’t know if he perceived it. For her, the world had narrowed, gratefully, to this moment, to Malfoy and his need, to her need. Nothing existed outside of it, not even the moments that led them both here.

It was so quiet she could hear the rustle of an insect as it crawled its way blindly but purposefully through the leaf cover. She pretended she could hear her heart beating, Malfoy’s, too. She looked at his chest rising and falling, imagined the flesh beneath the thin, black jumper, the muscle, the ribs, lungs, heart like a buried fist, and the blood she’d cursed.

She took in his Adam’s apple, sharp chin, and ash-blond stubble, pausing at his split lip before stopping, finally, at his winter-grey eyes.

He regarded her curiously, with none of the petulance or contempt she had expected. Head tilted, he shifted to his knees, waiting with what she might have called patience were he anyone else.

Raising her arms, she placed her hands gently but firmly on his shoulders. She felt his muscles tense, but he didn’t jerk away, and instead of revulsion, she saw apprehension in his eyes. His nostrils flared with it, and she squeezed his shoulders in what she meant to be reassurance, his body warm under her palms.

She said the words again, quiet, steady: “You’re better than me, Draco.” She heard his breath catch, saw his lips part. “I don’t deserve my friends after what I’ve done, what I failed to do. The world will be changed because of it, because of all the misplaced confidence and faith people have had in me. I am inferior. I’m not even what I once was.”

With the words gone, living in the air and, now, inside Malfoy, she felt drained but relieved, as if the guilt they embodied had been fueling that gnawing emptiness.

“Untie me,” Malfoy rasped. He had shifted closer on his knees as far as was possible and bent forward, his face mere inches away from hers. His eyes were black, pupils swallowing up the irises, swallowing her up. She couldn’t tell if it was her hands or the shoulders flexing restlessly beneath that had grown incredibly hot.

“W-what?” she stammered, letting her arms drop.

 _“Untie me,”_ he repeated. He was nearly panting, swallowing rapidly.

She shook her head, unable even to process his demand, let alone speak again.

 _“Granger.”_ It sounded like a plea, more forceful than the silent one she’d read on his face as she’d tortured him. His eyes darted to her lips, and he licked his own. “I don’t have my wand, yours is out of reach, and, as you and Weasley have been so careful to point out, you’re the only one who can remove the charms. Even if I overpowered you and forced you to end the spells, the third member of your trio is right outside,” he finished in a rush.

 _Trio._

Her incredulity at Malfoy’s new request, at his sudden desperation, evaporated. As if under _Imperius_ , she leaned around the side of him, reaching back to carefully undo the simple but effective binding spell knots. As she did so, she brushed against him, left arm grazing his chest, wild brown hair trailing across his shoulder, a few strands catching on the fine ribs of his jumper. She felt more than saw him turn his head into her, heard a small sound issue from low in his throat. It vibrated though him, through her, and, though she had only to tug gently on one last length of rope to free him, she paused, watched as he curled and uncurled his long, thin fingers as if something were about to be put into his hands.

Though he could easily have wriggled his way out of the loosened bindings, he waited patiently as Hermione unknotted the last of the rope. His skin was warm where she held his wrists, and she could feel and see raised, red patterns on it from all the violent jerking he’d been doing.

Finished, she tossed the rope aside and, slowly, drew back to face him, feeling his heart beat murderously against his chest and her shoulder, the tip of his nose briefly at her jaw, breath on her neck. She kept her eyes low, watching as he carefully brought his arms forward and rubbed gently at his wrists before settling his hands on his thighs, then going still.

She heard him swallow, and, like a yawn that triggers another yawn, her throat closed and opened in answer, the sound of it amplified as if she’d used _Sonorus_. Everything inside her felt heavy, each organ, bone, stretch of muscle like a distinct weight the ground pulled at, and she fought against it to raise her eyes to Malfoy’s.

She didn’t have time to read what was in them. Movement a blur, he lifted one of those hands and wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck and lower skull, other arm snaking about her waist and crushing her to him. His face went out of focus as he closed the remaining distance between their mouths, taking advantage of Hermione’s startled gasp and thrusting his tongue past her lips and teeth to swipe at hers.

She made a small, high-pitched noise like a question, something very girly that the tiny part of her mind capable of thought would have called a squeal. His teeth ground painfully against hers and she automatically opened her mouth wider and tilted her head. He groaned, tongue stabbing rhythmically in an attempt to coax her into responding. The hand at her waist tightened, and she winced, her side still tender from when she’d gripped it earlier to keep herself from hitting him again. His other hand inched higher until he was palming the back of her skull, fingers winding through her thick, knotted curls, thumb stroking at a random spot just below her occipital ridge. She brought her hands to his shoulders, not pushing, not pulling, surprised by her own inaction.

Suddenly, he let her go and ended the one-sided kiss with a wet smack. His lips were puffy and red, and she guessed hers were the same, despite her lack of enthusiasm. He lifted her chin with thumb and forefinger and looked into her eyes, just looked, as they both caught their breath. She looked back at him, honing in on those blue strands she’d noticed before as if paying attention to that one detail would prevent her from seeing the frenzied desperation firing behind his eyes.

She had no idea what he saw, but whatever it was, he was closing in again, slower this time, gently resting his forehead against hers, blond, silky strands of hair tickling her cheek as he brushed his lips against hers with the lightest, barest pressure. She breathed in his exhalation and held it, closing her eyes against the weight of his gaze. He trailed his fingers down her neck and she shivered, her hands tightening convulsively on his shoulders as he unzipped her sweatshirt. The sound of it seemed to bounce off the walls of the tent, like the racket of her heart against her ribs when next she felt a warm palm slide under her t-shirt and rest hotly on her belly. She let out a shaky breath, stomach muscles jumping, the electric currents a steady stream of fire now making a slow burn through her body. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut just as his eyelashes fluttered against her brow. Was he opening his eyes? Closing them?

Hermione found herself pressing closer—or was she pulling him to her? Their combined body heat hit her in waves, surrounding them like a cocoon, and a fine sheen of sweat broke out on her skin. She opened her eyes to slits, focused on his mouth, that full, red lower lip. Closing her eyes again, she tilted her head up, found that mouth with her own, pressed.

Malfoy groaned and brought his other hand to the small of her back, the one on her belly sliding around to clasp her left hip. His tongue darted out and licked at the inside of her lower lip, and this time she opened for him willingly, met every aggressive thrust and swipe with her own, their kisses less about exploration than deprivation. Her arm wrapped around his neck and tightened, her breasts pushing up against his chest, both actions unconscious, as if she were following a script she’d neither written nor read.

Malfoy dragged both hands roughly to her arse and squeezed, lifting her slightly and bringing their pelvises into contact and— _Oh!_ —he was hard, she could feel him against her hip, and there was an answering twinge between her legs and a moan in her throat. He nipped at her lip before kissing a wet trail to her neck, his stubble scraping her cheek and jaw on the way, just another sensation her body translated into arousal. His teeth closed on her pulse point, then he sucked the skin into his hot mouth as he ran his hands down the backs of her thighs, mouth now moving to her clavicle, Hermione’s fingers twisting in soft, clean hair, his hands behind her knees giving a yank.

Hermione’s legs went out from under her and she let out a small cry as she fell back against the blanket she’d warmed up Malfoy with earlier. He was on her immediately, hands pushing her thighs apart, then grasping her hips as he ground himself against her, gasping and muttering unintelligible words into her neck and hair. The fire racing through her veins centered in her groin; she could feel herself growing slick, knickers damp with it. Malfoy’s hands were everywhere, messily pushing her shirt up to grope at her breasts, tugging her bra down and rubbing at her nipples with his thumbs as he found her mouth again, tongue thrusting in a rhythm even a novice like Hermione recognized. She squirmed beneath him, both in arousal and discomfort, his bones digging into her painfully. He was so skinny; they were both so skinny.

She reached up to cradle his face, thumbs at his cheekbones, fingers reaching into his hair. She wished she hadn’t cleaned it earlier; it didn’t smell like anything now. The rest of him smelled vaguely musky and sweaty and like, well, _boy_. He _tasted_ like boy, slightly metallic, some sweetness from the tea, but otherwise simply good. Her body buzzed with him, felt gratefully weighted down by his, pinned and held by his lithe frame and the ground’s solidity beneath the blanket.

He broke the kiss, took her wrists in one hand and held them above her head as he lowered his mouth to one breast, cupping it with his other hand as he swiped her nipple with the flat of his tongue. _“Draco!”_ she gasped, arching into him the little she could and looking down at his blond head, platinum hair caressing her skin in soft brushstrokes.

He stopped, drew back, and Hermione wondered if his name had broken the moment, this series of moments. She was afraid to acknowledge the disappointment, afraid _not_ to acknowledge it.

Malfoy released her wrists, leveled his gaze on her. He didn’t look angry, disgusted, or panicked, as if he’d woken from a dream, been drugged, or spelled—all expressions she most expected and most feared to see. His eyes were still black, face flushed, breathing shallow. He stared at her as if she were a difficult, delicate potion he was about to add the final ingredient to, something rare and powerful. Unblinking, he brought both hands to the button of her jeans and, with all deliberation, flicked it open. His fingers grasped the pull of her zipper, and he paused, one eyebrow slightly arched, tongue sneaking out to lick at his lips.

 _He’s asking permission,_ she realized, and something flared again in her belly, a little heavy, but fleeting. She took a breath, stared back at him steadily, and waited, gaze on his unwavering.

Malfoy’s eyes flashed silver with hunger as he lowered the zipper, and Hermione lifted her hips so he could tug the jeans down her thighs, past her knees, down to her feet. He let her legs drop, finally looking away as he untied her trainers and removed them with her socks, then pulling her jeans free. She shivered as cooler air hit her bare legs and swallowed when Malfoy’s hands went to his own trousers, efficiently undoing the belt with a whisper of leather and a clack of the buckle.

Her arms shook beneath her, having unconsciously raised herself up on her elbows, and she let herself fall back to the blanket. Shirt still pushed high up on her body, bra awkwardly askew, she resisted the urge to cover herself, exposed breasts and hardened nipples or striped, cotton knickers that must, by now, be soaked through.

Malfoy’d gotten his trousers open and was lowering himself back down on top of her. Before settling, he slid his hands up the outside of her thighs and wrapped them around his waist. She locked her ankles behind him and took the opportunity to pull at his jumper, eager to feel warm skin. Bracing his weight on one arm, he worked the garment over his head and off the other arm, shifting to take it the rest of the way off and tossing it aside.

Skin on skin, they both gasped, and Malfoy rushed to kiss her with bruising force, moaning into her mouth so that she felt the vibrations of it through his chest and hers. He didn’t move, cock hot and heavy against her thigh, but still pressing against what felt like silk boxers. As their tongues met and stroked one another, she felt him maneuver a hand between them, and suddenly there was no more silk, just flesh, smooth and hard, and fingers at her knickers, pulling them aside. She dug her nails into his upper arms in anticipation, kiss ending with a final sucking on her tongue that seemed to tug way down at her sex.

She took in a ragged breath, held it as Malfoy, eyes shuttered, face a mask of concentration, guided himself to her slippery entrance and pushed slowly inwards, pausing when the head of his cock had breached her. _“Ahhh,”_ he groaned against her ear, his breath sending tingles down the side of her body, making her jerk. She felt her inner walls stretching to accommodate him and tried to relax her muscles as he worked himself the rest of the way inside her. _“Mmm, fuck,”_ he swore, lifting his head to look down at her. She loosened the grip on his arms and looked back, biting her lip. She felt full, but not uncomfortably so, and nodded her reassurance.

Given the go-ahead, Malfoy began to move, deep, measured thrusts at first, hips rocking rhythmically against hers. Hermione followed the steady pace he set and squeezed at him with her thighs and ankles, hands falling from his arms to encircle his back just below the shoulder blades. His muscles flexed beneath her palms with each movement, slick with sweat, and she closed her eyes, concentrating on the feel of him inside her, the throbbing of her clit, and the litany of words tumbling from his lips: “Fuck, fuck, _Granger_ , yes, fuck.” She whimpered in response and was startled to hear him say clearly, “Open your eyes.”

She obeyed, caught immediately by his molten gaze. His thrusts didn’t slacken or lose their regularity as he straightened his arms, bodies separating as he towered over her, and she knew he was going to speak before he opened his mouth.

“Wanna slap me now, Granger?” he asked, voice husky and without a trace of malice or humor. Instead, he looked absolutely serious, eager even. “I’d let you, you know.”

Hermione shook her head, partly in answer, partly out of sheer disbelief. Malfoy looked, what, disappointed? Hurt? A small downturn of the lips and a toss of his head, strands of blond hair plastered to his skin.

She ran a hand up his smooth chest, raking nails lightly over a nipple, and wrapped her fingers around the back of his neck. She pulled him back down, clenched her internal muscles with all her might, immensely satisfied when he gasped, eyes widening. His hips sped up, rhythm sloppy, and she had a hard time meeting his thrusts. Silent but for the harsh panting and _smack-smack_ of skin on skin, he shoved his hand between their bodies, found her clit, slippery and sensitive, and worked it in furious circles that made her cry out sharply. A moment later she was coming with a high-pitched keen, inner walls spasming uncontrollably around Malfoy’s cock as she clutched at his shoulders and scraped her teeth along his jugular. He quickly followed with a few final, deep thrusts, pausing on the last to groan before collapsing on top of her.

Despite being so skinny, he felt heavy, deadweight, but Hermione didn’t mind, couldn’t bring herself to care about anything as a bone-deep calm settled through her entire body. She stared up at the tent’s sloping canvas ceiling as she and Malfoy regained their breath, hearts pounding viciously, every pulse point thrumming.

Minutes later, recovered, Hermione’s arms loosely circling his shoulders, Malfoy stirred, his lips tickling her earlobe as she felt him inhale before speaking, voice completely neutral. “I don’t know where Potter is. I’m sorry.” He was still inside her.

A sob ripped through her chest and tore from her throat at the admission she knew was no lie.


End file.
